Robert Sabin: Romero (2007)

How we rate: our writers tend to review music they like within their preferred genres.

Romero, bassist Robert Sabin's rousing and contemplative tribute to director George Romero's famous zombie films, yields an unusual, effective combination of two seemingly disparate disciplines, jazz and horror movies.

Drawing inspiration from the classic trilogy of Night of the Living Dead (1968), Dawn of the Dead (1978) and Day of the Dead (1985), Sabin uses Romero's ripe cinematic metaphors assessing the frailty of the human condition as a thematic framework. Like Romero's films, his sophisticated compositions reveal a rich, complex palette that is alternately harrowing and harmonious, drawing a multitude of emotionsdespite what may seem limited subject matter at first glance.

Despite the gruesome subject matter, Sabin's pieces can be downright congenial. "Flowers In The Graveyard" blossoms into an elegant pastoral theme, accented by Stanley's shimmering chords before embarking into darker, introspective territory.

Sabin transforms Goblin's ominous theme to Dawn of the Dead, "L'Alba Dei Morti Viventi," expanding the sinister score into an epic meditation on darkness, alternating the portentous dirge-like theme with vigorous solo sections fueled by bracing tempo accelerations. Stanley, Johnson and Rigby run rings around the pulsating theme, tearing it inside out, until only a bloody mess of eviscerated innards remain.

"Introduction," "Is There Food?" and "Flowers In The Graveyard" utilize brief snippets of film dialogue as transitory elements. The soulful meditation, "God Left The Phone Off The Hook," is a nod to Romero's recent Land of the Dead (2005), using a choice rejoinder for the expansive tune's title, featuring an exquisite bass solo from Sabin.

Following one of the most absurdly fantastic lines of film dialogue (from Day of the Dead), "Monkey Farm" blasts forth on a surly roadhouse riff that invokes Miles Davis' "Right Off," from A Tribute to Jack Johnson (Columbia, 1970), in spirit and intensity. Stanley's searing, distorted guitar expels crystalline shards over Sabin and Griffin's punishing vamp before the horns unfurl gnarled tendrils from the circuitous theme.

"Helicopters" closes the album with an optimistic homage to Romero's favorite escape device, ascending a buoyant waltz-time melody with fluid group interaction and robust, euphonious lyricism.

Simultaneously transcending and evincing its subject matter, Romero is a brilliant document of contemporary jazz improvisation and exceptional group interaction bolstered by multicolored writing. Sabin's sophomore effort teems with thematic content that never overshadows the music at hand, accentuating it with poignant relevance.